Finally she went into the bedroom. Her shoes were on the messed up sheets, flanking the open MacBook.
Her heart lurched. Rick had set them there, knowing she would look for them. He wanted her to see something on the computer.
She cursed softly. No wonder he’d had bags under his eyes. He’d been up all night doing illegal things. She could ignore them, she supposed. She could take the shoes and not touch the MacBook, going downstairs and meeting his questioning gaze.
Or she could see what he left. Maybe it was just a simple note, like a love letter.
She hoped.
She hit the spacebar and the computer whirred out of its sleep mode. The screen shimmered twice and then came into focus. She wasn’t staring at a webpage, as she had expected.
Instead, what she saw was a Microsoft word document. A letter, as she had hoped.
Beautiful:
I have names for you. Do not ask me how I got them, because I won’t tell you. Ever.
These may save you a few phone calls.
Have I told you that I’ve fallen in love with you?
Rick
Her breath caught. She stared at the last two lines again. Have I told you that I’ve fallen in love with you?
“No,” she whispered to the machine, “you haven’t.”
She wanted to pick up the damn computer and clutch it to her chest. The man was an incurable romantic. Of course. How else could he have gotten his job?
She ran a finger along the screen. Such a message deserved an answer. She longed to type out her feelings as well. Instead, she scrolled down. Rick had divided the names into categories: Possibles, Unlikely But Worth Mentioning, and My Number One Choice.
Under My Number One Choice, he’d written Herbert Beebe: His company photo matches the description Rita gave the police. It also matches my memory of the sketch the police artist did from her description. The dates match up. He was on my route from the publication of the second Jessamyn novel until February when he took an early retirement. He put all of his possession in storage, then moved to Portland. The address listed as his now is in an apartment complex that rents furnished places. It’s way below his means. (He invested well after the crash of ‘87. He’s got enough money to live—has had for years. Could have retired long ago, but didn’t. In fact, his personnel file says he insisted on staying on my route. He was actually belligerent about it.)
His personnel file? How had Rick found that? Oh, she didn’t want to know.
She glanced at the other names. Rick had listed why he included them. Most of them had quit, retired, or been fired around the same date. Some had relatives here. Others had moved here. Still others had transferred here, but some of them, he noted, had been working on the days when he knew the Creep had been near the house.
If you want to dig a little further, he had written, I have a jpg file with #1 Suspect’s photo in it.
In for a penny, in for a pound, as her mother used to say. Tasha clicked on the desktop, then found the jpg file sitting below the Internet browser. She double-clicked the file, and a photograph came up.
Like all institutional photographs, it had a washed-out look. The subject was a thin man with a receding hairline and weak chin. His nose was long and crooked as if it had been broken, and he had a faint scar under his lower lip.
“Been in a few fights, have you?” she whispered to the photo.
He wore the dark uniform of a deliveryman, and his eyes reflected the camera’s flash redly. She wished she could see those eyes better. They would tell her a lot.
The doorknob jiggled, and the lock snapped back. She glanced at the photo one last time. Well, there’d be no lying to Rick now about whether or not she’d seen the files.
“No fair with the shoes,” she said, grabbing them and coming into the main room. Then she stopped.
For standing there, with a wide grin on his exceedingly pale face, was Herbert Beebe.
THIRTY-FOUR
“YOU KNOW,” Rick said, “Tasha is going to think we’re somewhere in that damn restaurant.”
They were standing on the edge of Pioneer Plaza, near the Starbucks. Behind them, a group of pierced, tattooed, and dreadlocked teenagers were playing hacky sack. Police officers on horses were patrolling the street. And down the brick stairs, a group of women gathered. Placards lay on the ground around them. They were obviously planning some kind of protest.
“Well, none of the other restaurants are that full,” Lou said. “Pick one and we’ll let Tasha know where we are.”
“Deal.” Rick was so hungry, he was tempted to go into Starbucks and buy anything sweet and gooey. Instead he pointed at a restaurant across the street. It was an upscale French restaurant that served all day. He’d been wanting to try it for weeks.
“All right,” Lou said. “You realize that’s probably not on the department’s budget.”
Rick grinned. “Jessamyn will pay for yours.”
“She’s such a gentleman,” Lou said.
They walked to the sidewalk, passing a flower vendor as they went. Rick resisted the urge to browse. He wanted to buy flowers for Tasha, to show her just how important she’d become. But he didn’t dare with Lou along.
Although Lou seemed to know what had happened. He’d alluded to it once or twice. Rick simply hadn’t responded. He’d promised Tasha that he wouldn’t.
He hoped the note wasn’t too out of line. He was less worried about the information he’d given her—he knew she’d use that—than he was about the signature line. It had seemed right at 7:30 after no sleep. Now, in the bright sunlight of a Portland morning, it seemed like he was rushing things. He’d probably scared her away.
“You’re quiet,” Lou said.
“Tired,” Rick said.
“Not much sleep, huh?”
Rick glanced at him, trying to hear if there was a leer in Lou’s voice. “Yesterday was rough.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
This time, Rick did hear a bit of chiding. It made him defensive. He wanted to explain how difficult the day had been, even though the evening had more than made up for it.
“So,” Rick said, feeling a little mean-spirited. “How was the concert?”
“Loud,” Lou said.
“I thought you left awfully late,” Rick said. “Wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”
“It was at the Rose Garden,” Lou said. “They didn’t care what time you get there.”
“I’m sure your wife cared,” Rick said, as they crossed the street at the light.
Lou shrugged. “She’s been a police officer’s wife for years. She knows the drill.”
The phrase caught him. Rick hadn’t really contemplated what it meant to be in love with a police officer. The worry, the complications, the constant ever-present fear that your loved one might not come home.
“How long did it take her to adjust?”
“To my schedule?” Lou opened the restaurant door. “She’s never adjusted.”
Wonderful, Rick thought.
“But she does put up with it, which is more than I could have expected.” Lou had a fond expression on his face. It made him look tender, something Rick would have thought Lou’s features couldn’t achieve.
Obviously the man really loved his wife. Inconvenience or no. They put up with each other and supported each other. And that was what counted.
Then Rick felt uneasy. He glanced around the restaurant and saw nothing unusual. There were a handful of patrons, mostly people in business suits, talking earnestly over dishes covered in sauces. He checked the wait staff. None of them looked like the photographs he’d been scanning the night before.
Maybe his mental timer had just gone off. Tasha should be out of her shower by now, and heading down to the hotel’s restaurant.
“I think we’d better let Tasha know where we are,” Rick said.
Lou tossed him a cell phone. Rick caught it in one hand.
“Press ‘star’ twice,” Lou said. “I’ve got Ta
sha’s cell on the speed dial. If she’s already out of the room, this’ll guarantee that we find her.”
At that moment, the hostess approached them carrying two menus designed to look like parchment. “Breakfast?” she asked with a French accent that Rick could only hope was fake.
“Yes,” Lou said as if she’d been withholding food from him.
She didn’t seem to notice. “This way,” she said, and led them into the main dining room. She led them to a black booth flanked on both sides by large vases filled with roses.
As Rick and Lou sat down, she handed them the menus.
“Let me tell you the specials,” she said. As she recited, ingredient by ingredient, Rick’s fist clenched around the cell phone.
His feeling of unease had grown, and he had no real idea why.
THIRTY-FIVE
“JESSAMYN,” BEEBE SAID with complete and utter joy.
Tasha didn’t move. Rick had told her she looked nothing like Rita. Rita had curly red hair. Tasha’s was blond—and wet. And when it was wet, it curled.
She resisted the urge to touch it. She made her lower lip tremble, just a little. She had to buy some time. Her handcuffs were in her purse, which was beside the sofa. Behind Beebe.
A thousand miles away.
“Who are you?” she asked, struggling to sound weak and terrified. She’d never felt weak in her entire life. Brooke used to say that was one of her problems.
“My name is Herbert Beebe, my dear.” He was stronger than his photo made him look. He had a compact build, and muscular arms and back. Which only made sense, considering that he’d lifted heavy packages most of his life. “I’ve come to rescue you.”
He sounded so sincere, which made the last sentence sound completely ridiculous.
“Rescue... me?” She dropped her voice to a whisper, then looked toward the window, then the door, as if she were afraid Rick was going to overhear.
“I know what he’s been doing to you, my darling. I’ve come to get you out. Let’s hurry.”
“But Rick...” She was trying not to glance at her purse. She supposed she could pull out her gun, but she didn’t want to spook the man. She wanted to catch him by surprise.
“What about him?” Beebe asked.
“If he finds me, then—oh, God.” She couldn’t even make up what her imaginary Rick would do. If only she were the writer. But she wasn’t. Her ability to make things up on the spot was flimsy at best.
“He won’t find you, not if we hurry.” Beebe glanced at the door, as if just mentioning Rick would make him appear.
“How—how did you know?”
Beebe smiled. “All the signs were there. Remember what I said to you in Chicago?”
She stared at him for a moment. Of course she didn’t. That had been Rita. But she had to gamble. “That was you, wasn’t it? Oh, I knew you’d come for me.”
For a moment, she thought she went over the top. He was staring at her, a small frown on his face. “I told you to contact me. Why didn’t you? The police said you’d called them.”
She swallowed. Lies. She hated lies. “That wasn’t me. That was Rick. I—I had to tell him.”
“But you could have called.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t bad then. I didn’t realize what he can do.” Then she paused, as if something had just come to her. As if the words “what he can do” triggered a horrible image in her mind. “You have to leave. If he catches you... .”
“I’ll take care of him.” Beebe pushed back his suit coat with his right hand. A semi-automatic hung from a holster at his hip. This man really had sunken into fantasy. If he fired that thing, he could release fifteen bullets before she even got to her gun.
“Is—is that thing loaded?” The stammer wasn’t quite so hard to fake this time. She had expected violence from Beebe, but not a weapon that was designed for war.
“Oh, yeah.” For a moment, his watery blue eyes glinted. Hard, dangerous, and crazy. What a lovely combination. Then the look vanished and the milquetoast Beebe reappeared. “Don’t worry, beloved. I won’t let anything harm you.”
Beloved. Darling. The heroes in Jessamyn’s novels—Rick’s novels—used those endearments all the time. It was one of the few things that Tasha had never liked about the books.
They also had a lot of rescue fantasies in them.
She shivered slightly.
Beebe reached for her. “Let me get you out of here.”
She didn’t want him to touch her, but she didn’t know if she should step away.
At the last minute, she figured out what to do. He believed Rick abused Jessamyn, and Tasha had seen her share of abused spouses when she was still a beat cop.
She cringed away from his touch.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, sounding slightly offended.
“Rick, he—”
“He hurts you?” Beebe seemed to grow taller. “Maybe we should wait for him.”
“N-No,” Tasha said. She had to get to that purse. “I want to get out of here. You can get me out of here, right?”
“Of course I can, sweetie.”
Did he have any idea how awful those words sounded? Probably not. He probably saw himself as tall, dark, and dashing. Probably no more so than right now, when he was rescuing the lady of his dreams.
“Then we have to leave now,” Tasha said. “Rick will be back soon. He went to get breakfast.”
“Who was the man with him?”
“Man?” It was Lou, but she didn’t dare admit that. Unfortunately, nothing was coming to mind.
“He looked familiar. I know I’ve seen him recently—”
A phone rang. Her phone. Her cell phone.
Beebe looked around for the source of the sound.
“Th-That’s my phone,” Tasha said, wondering if she was overdoing the stammer. “Only Rick has the number.”
The phone rang again. Beebe was frowning.
“If I don’t answer it, he’ll come and check on me.”
Another ring.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Let me get it. If I do anything out of the ordinary, he’ll come here.”
For the first time, Beebe looked a little panicked. So, for all his bravado, he was afraid of Rick. Good. That might help.
Beebe nodded.
Tasha launched herself across the room, narrowly missing him, and grabbed her purse. She thought of going directly for the handcuffs she kept in there, but that was too risky. Instead, she pulled out the cell phone and answered it.
“Tasha!” It was Rick. She let out a shaky little breath, hoping that the phone wasn’t loud enough for Beebe to hear Rick’s side of the conversation. “Lou and I—”
“I didn’t get it right away because I was getting dressed.” She was beginning to get this down, this pretending to be a victim thing. She could hear the terror in her own voice. Only it didn’t sound like her voice.
“What?” Rick asked.
“I’m sorry. I know you want me to answer in two rings.” Her left hand was still inside her purse, inching toward the handcuffs.
Beebe was watching her closely.
“Tasha, it’s Rick.”
“I know, sweetie,” she said, giving Beebe a wild-eyed look. “But I couldn’t get to the phone any faster. Don’t yell at me, please.”
“What the hell is this, Tash?”
“I don’t want to go back to that room, Rick. Please. Don’t make me.”
Beebe’s eyes widened. Either she was very good at her new acting job, or she was very bad.
Rick let out a small whistling breath. “I’ll be right there, Tash.”
“Don’t do anything, please. I’ll be fine.” This time, it was her speaking. She didn’t want Rick up here—not Rick the man who attacked flower delivery guys. She wanted Lou to come here as back-up. That was all she needed.
“He hasn’t hurt you, has he?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” And then Rick hung up.
As she let go of the phone, she grabbed the handcuffs, prying one side open.
“Is he coming here?” Beebe asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said, knowing that an absolute reassurance would be bad. Beebe expected Rick to be nasty, so she had to play it that way.
“Then let’s get out of here.” Beebe reached out a hand to help her up.
She took his hand, let him pull her forward, then twisted his arm around his back. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere,” she said.
THIRTY-SIX
“HE’S THERE,” Rick said as he hung up, tossing the phone back to Lou.
Lou caught the phone. “The perp?”
Rick nodded. “And he thinks Tasha is Jessamyn.”
“Thank the Lord for small favors.” Lou threw down a ten, and was struggling to get out of the booth.
Rick slid out quickly and ran out of the restaurant. After the restaurant’s darkness, the sunlight nearly blinded him. He hurried down the street, not waiting for Lou. Lou would catch up. But Rick had to get there.
Tasha was alone with the Creep, and God knew what he would do to her. She was there because of Rick. And yes, he knew that she could take care of herself, but he also knew that things went wrong. And something like this could go very wrong.
He glanced over his shoulder. Lou was running behind him, phone pressed to his ear. Probably calling for back-up.
Rick careened into a middle-aged man, and nearly lost his balance. “Sorry,” Rick said, continuing forward.
The man cursed him, but Rick didn’t stop. His gaze was on the Old Multnomah Hotel’s sign two blocks ahead. People were pulling their cars up front as if nothing was wrong. Valets were opening doors, carrying luggage, chatting.
Did they know Tasha was in trouble?
The distance seemed so much longer than any distance he’d ever run before. He’d have to go in, take the stairs, find hotel security—or maybe he’d leave that to Lou.
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